The Last Sister (Columbia River)(68)

“What was Sean researching?” Zander asked.

“Several things. Shanghaiing was one of his main interests. In this little corner of the state, we have a dark history of the practice and other crimes against people. Sean was fascinated. You know he was writing a book, right?” Simon jumped to his feet and darted to the file cabinets in the dining room behind the sofa. “There were so many interesting events in this often-ignored area of the US, it’s a pleasure when someone wants to discuss them. I was more than happy to show him what I had.” He sorted through a drawer and yanked out a thick file, his eyes lit with delight.

Simon came alive as he talked about what he loved best.

“There’s tons of information, but these are some of the items I scanned for him.” He paused and looked over at the two of them. “Scanning is the most wonderful invention. So much better than making paper copies.” He hummed under his breath as he went back to his file. “Makes my life so much easier. Email. Thumb drives. Wireless scanning. We live in an amazing world.”

“I admit I don’t know much about shanghaiing,” Zander said. “Just what I’ve seen in movies, which I doubt is accurate.”

“Astoria was Oregon’s shanghai capital,” Simon said. “In the late nineteenth century, ships from all over the world came to the port in Astoria. Timber and salmon were two of our biggest exports, and all these ships needed labor. Shanghaiing was called crimping at first. The ship’s captains would make contracts with crimps—another name for men who would provide the labor by whatever means possible. The crimps would sometimes use alcohol to trick men onto the boats, or force them at gunpoint. It didn’t matter who the victims were . . . loggers, farmers.” His eyes sparkled. “Astoria even had a female crimper. Her husband had drowned, and she needed to support herself, so she sold unsuspecting labor to the captains.”

Emily and Zander moved to look over Simon’s shoulder.

The historian tapped on a photo of a solemn older woman surrounded by family wearing early-1900s fashions. “She doesn’t look like a criminal, does she? New laws around the turn of the century finally made shanghaiing a federal crime, and it mostly disappeared.”

“What else did you and Sean talk about?” asked Zander, a hint of impatience in the tightening around his mouth. Emily understood. She didn’t see how shanghaiers in the nineteenth century could have anything to do with the Fitch murders of today.

“Let’s see . . .” Simon pinched his lip again. “He was researching crime on the northern Oregon coast, so information on Fort Stevens, crimes against the Clatsop Indians and other races . . . A lot of these crimes took root in Portland and spread over here. I also gave him research on founding city families, Columbia River bar pilots—”

“I’ve never heard of a bar pilot,” said Zander.

“All those big ships I mentioned? They needed a local pilot to board and safely navigate the shallow passage of the Columbia River. Where the river meets the Pacific Ocean is one of the most treacherous navigated waters in the world, so they’d boat out an experienced local to guide the ships in safely. Local pilots are still required by law for every ship engaging in foreign trade. These days they board the ships via helicopter or boat about fifteen miles from the mouth of the river.”

“Sounds dangerous,” said Zander.

“Very dangerous. Boarding the ships in the rough ocean was a huge risk for bar pilots in the past. Still can be.”

“Did Sean contact you after the meeting at all?” Zander asked.

“He came back for a short visit a day or two later. I’d sent him to Harlan for more information.”

“The mayor,” Emily clarified for Zander. “He had an ancestor who owned a tavern in Astoria that was a very active shanghai location. Everyone knows he has a ton of research on the topic. It’s one of his hobbies.”

“Harlan isn’t the only one in town with a relative accused of shanghaiing,” Simon said with a wink at Emily.

“True, but no one in my family is fascinated the way Harlan is. We prefer to let the stories about our lawbreaking ancestors fade away.”

“No, no, no.” Simon vehemently shook his head. “I’ve had many discussions with Dory about this. You don’t let history die.” He opened another file cabinet, and his fingers danced across the tabs. “Here it is.” He slid out a narrow file. “I’ve been working on this as a surprise for your aunt, but I think you should spend some time with it.” He thrust it at Emily, and she instinctively took it. The printed label on the tab read BARTON.

“What is this?” she whispered.

“Your homework. You need to learn to appreciate the stories of your past. I’ve made copies of everything I come across that relates to Dory’s family—which includes you. One of these days, I’ll put it in a nice big binder as a gift for her—so don’t let her see it.”

Emily stared at the file, stunned. “This is so thoughtful.”

The historian blushed. “Just put in a good word with Dory for me.”

“I will.”



“I’m sorry Simon wasn’t much help,” Emily said as Zander drove her home. “It was a waste of your time. I can’t see a connection between Sean’s research of hundred-year-old shanghaiing crimes and his murder.” The agent didn’t appear that disappointed, but Emily suspected he hid it well.